Secret Admirer

  Sir Dennis’s body gently went loose and slid backward, pulling Tuesday with it. For a few moments she just stayed there, his dead fingers on her arm, his lifeless body next to her. And then she unclasped the fingers and stood and hugged herself with her good arm.

  Her mother had been unfaithful. Her father had killed her lover. He had chased her with a knife, threatening her. And in the end she had chosen to end her life rather than let him end it for her.

  She held the image of her mother sailing down the stairs in her mind, her gown billowing around her, her expression so peaceful and beautiful. Her mother had been happy at the end, Tuesday told herself. She had escaped. She had flown away.

  And now, so had her father.

  Tuesday felt dizzily numb. She did not want to cry. She did not feel loss. She just felt—

  “Tuesday, are you all right?”

  Tuesday turned around and saw CeCe standing in the doorway, looking concerned. “He is dead,” she said.

  “I thought I heard something so Morse and I rushed up here,” CeCe explained, moving toward Tuesday and putting an arm around her shoulders. “Was that you yelling? Is there anything I can do to help you?”

  The thought of explaining it to her, to anyone, made Tuesday feel weary all the way to her toes. She shook her head. “No thank you, CeCe. I think I just need to be by myse—”

  “Tuesday? Where are you?” Lawrence’s voice sounded from the entry hall below and she knew she was wrong. She needed to be with him. For hours.

  She was moving to the door when CeCe stopped her. “I have to talk to you, Tuesday.”

  She stared at her. “Not right now.”

  “It is important.”

  “Please, love. Tomorrow.”

  CeCe dropped her hand from Tuesday’s shoulder and watched as she flew down the stairs and into Lawrence’s arms.

  “What happened?” Lawrence asked, engulfing her in his embrace. “Did he?”

  She nodded and pressed her face into his chest. “I am sorry.”

  She was quiet for a few moments. Then she said, “There is something wrong with me, Lawrence.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I am horrible.” She swallowed. “I am not overwhelmed, or grief stricken, or even sad. And—” she tried to keep the words back but couldn’t. “And I am not sorry. There. I’ve admitted it. I am a terrible daughter.”

  “You are a daughter who has been through quite a lot in the past week.”

  “I should be in mourning. If not for my father than for Curtis. And George. I should be tearing out my hair and weeping all the time.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that is what widows do and that is what dutiful daughters do. They do not go leaping into the arms of the man investigating the murder of their husband.”

  He stroked her hair for a few moments, then leaned down to whisper, “I think this is a special case.”

  “Why?”

  “Well for one thing, sweetheart, I am widely known to be irresistible.”

  Through their conversation she had kept her face buried in his chest. Now she looked up at him and, to his great relief, rolled her eyes.

  “For another thing,” he went on, “I think it is their fault.”

  “How?”

  “Maybe not George. But certainly Curtis and your father. The way they treated you forced you to be so incredibly strong that now it is hard for you to let go and feel anything like grief. And there is no denying that you did your suffering for both those men while they were alive. You were living in a nightmare. I do not think there is anything wrong with you feeling relief that the shadow you have been existing under is gone.”

  She stared at him. “That is exactly how I feel. How did you know?”

  “I know a bit about nightmares.” He kissed the crown of her head. “At least I did before you. And, of course, there is the fact that I would say anything to make you feel better. What should I say now?”

  “Say, ‘I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to think. I just want to take you somewhere and hold you all night.’ ”

  He sought her eyes. “I don’t want to talk if you don’t want to. When I am with you I don’t seem able to think. So I was hoping that you would let me take you to a place I know and hold you in my arms all night.”

  “Where?”

  “Surprise.”

  “I hate surprises.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “Yes I do. Surprises and secrets. And beetles. At least the flying—”

  Two hours later they lay twined around each other in a specially configured skiff just off the dock of Pickering Hall. On the dock were a gold candelabrum and a number of dishes the chef had labored over intensely. Whenever they wanted anything Lawrence pulled them back along the rope that was tethering them to land. But the chef’s labors were largely wasted. They did not want anything.

  They lay together on the silk-cushioned expanse of the boat under a linen coverlet beneath the stars, being gently rocked by the motion of the Thames. They were facing each other, bodies pressed close, Lawrence inside of Tuesday. As the boat rocked their bodies moved lazily together and apart, their lovemaking unfolding one inch at a time. It went on for hours, right through the golden cherries Tuesday fed Lawrence from between her teeth, through the setting of the moon. He stayed inside her all night, until his excitement encompassed every pore, until the slightest change in his breathing was nearly enough to topple her over the edge. This was not simple arousal, they had passed that hours before. This was something that took them outside themselves and their bodies. They both felt like they were hovering on a precipice of exquisite sensation, shifting closer to the edge with each hour but not quite reaching it, painstakingly balancing the forces urging them forward with the tension of keeping away. They stayed poised there, outside of thought or time, poised on the edge of this well of sensation, until the sky turned from black to inky blue and the earliest birds began to sing. Then, by silent agreement, they both unreigned everything they were holding back and let the pleasure engulf them.

  It started small, like a rumble and grew and grew until it blared through both of them from head to foot, rebounding and clanging and pealing through their bodies. They clung to one another, half in awe, half in terror of the battering waves of pleasure that refused to end, that just kept getting more intense until they were both shouting and both unaware of it. Finally the sensation subsided and they collapsed into and onto and around one another, utterly transported, completely exhausted, and sopping wet from the waves they had sent crashing into the bottom of the boat. By the time the fog of exhilaration began to evaporate, they were lying in two feet of water and perilously close to sinking.

  Lawrence reeled them in and they walked naked, hand and hand, back to the house.

  When Tuesday was tucked between the linen sheets in the marble chamber, Lawrence bent to put a kiss on her forehead.

  “That was spectacular, Lawrence.”

  “No, sweetheart. It was better than that.”

  “Are you arguing with me?”

  “I don’t think I have the strength.”

  She smiled wolfishly for a moment, then frowned. “Where are you going?”

  “I have a few things to check on.”

  “What things?”

  “Details from the investigation. I need to get them taken care of before the afternoon.”

  She gave a big yawn as she considered this. “Very well. I will let you go. But only if you promise that tonight we get to do whatever I say.”

  “Sweetheart—”

  She crossed her good arm over her chest. “No arguing.”

  She looked imperious and ridiculous and marvelous, and at that moment Lawrence loved her more than ever before. He gazed at her, completely entranced that she could be his, and burned the image of her on his mind.

  That memory greeted him every night before he went to bed, and every morni
ng when he woke up. It floated into his mind whenever he had a moment of free time, whenever he saw something beautiful, or heard someone laughing, or saw a boat bobbing on the river, pulling him right back to that instant, right back to the marvelous, transporting smell and taste and sight of her.

  Which was why, in the months that followed, he stopped sleeping and started drinking and became so busy with his work that he barely had time to keep his social engagements.

  Because by the time he finished with his work that morning, she was gone.

  Gone for good.

  Chapter 35

  “Where are we going?” Tuesday asked, laughing, as Jack hurried her through the thick grove of trees that partially surrounded Doom Manor.

  “Secret place. Tuesday will like it.”

  “What kind of secret place?”

  “Secret!” Jack had insisted emphatically, then burst into hysterical laughter. Tuesday joined him, overwhelmed by the changes she saw in him.

  The security and safety of Doom Manor had worked magic on him. After years of cowering in his chambers he had blossomed into a gregarious, adventurous boy. It seemed as though he spent all his time dashing from one end of the Doom Manor grounds to the other, exploring every niche and cranny. He had already taken Tuesday to the boating lake that filled a corner of the property, and to the top of one turret to show her a rusted set of manacles, but from his excitement and calls for speed she sensed he had saved his best surprise for last.

  “We’re almost there,” he sang out merrily as they rounded a bend in the path. He stopped and pointed. “There.”

  They had emerged into a clearing surrounded on all sides by trees. In front of them stood a charming little cottage circled by a low stone wall.

  “Whose house is it?” Tuesday asked.

  “Jack’s new friends. Tuesday’s, too. Come on, I will show you.”

  Never one to stand on ceremony, Jack not only pulled Tuesday into the garden and up the steps but, knocking on the door and getting no answer, stepped inside.

  “We can’t just go into someone’s house,” Tuesday balked.

  “They won’t mind,” Jack assured her, nearly dragging her into a large, pleasant chamber. “Wait here,” he ordered and walked out.

  Trying not to focus on the fact that she had committed a dozen social gaffes and probably an illegal act by entering someone’s abode uninvited, Tuesday looked around her. One wall of the room was almost entirely taken up with windows that overlooked the path they had just come up as well as the drive, and filled the space with light. But despite being bright and cheerful, there was something about the room that struck Tuesday as odd. It was not just that the furniture was finer and more luxurious than she would have expected given the remote location of the cottage, or that it was almost incredibly clean and neat. It was—it was that all the chairs, but one, were facing the window.

  That lone one, a sort of throne, looked instead at a painting. As Tuesday approached the painting she saw that it was a copy of the Leonardo da Vinci painting of a mother and child, the one Lawrence had said was his favorite the day they first met. This was an exceptional copy, much better than hers. It was so good that—

  She turned then to see Jack reentering, leading a beautiful woman slightly younger than Tuesday. She had alabaster skin and Tuesday’s favorite nose and very dark hair and eyes. She was small but carried herself regally.

  “This is Jack’s friend Maria,” Jack announced proudly. “And this is Jack’s sister, Tuesday.”

  As Tuesday was beginning to wonder if Jack was trying to tell her that he had fallen in love, he leaned toward her to whisper, “Maria’s real name is Lady Pickering, but Jack is allowed to call her Maria. Maybe Tuesday can, too.”

  Tuesday felt as though the blood stopped running through her body. “Lady Pickering?” she repeated stupidly. When Maria nodded, Tuesday forced herself to ask, “You are Lawrence Pickering’s—wife?”

  “Yes,” Maria said, and two spots of pink appeared on her cheeks. Then she added quickly, and almost in a monotone, “But I am afraid my husband is not here right now. He is away on business. I am not sure when he will be back. He is never gone long.”

  Tuesday heard the words, the exact words, she had spoken so many times herself, heard them spoken with the same undercurrent of bravery designed to blanket out the knowledge that they were lies, and felt like someone had hit her. Listening to her own speech, knowing everything that lay behind it, made the oddness of the room, its cleanliness and luxuriousness and arrangement, make sense.

  She saw the chairs facing the window that overlooked every possible approach to the house and knew all about the waiting, the vigilance, the sleepless nights of pacing and hoping. The lonely mornings of despair. She looked at the one chair, the throne, facing Lawrence’s favorite painting, kept just for him, pristine for him how he liked it, and instantly sensed the long days of trying to guess his every whim, trying to be the perfect wife, so he wouldn’t go away again. She could almost hear all the questions about where he had been or when he would be coming home, swallowed back for fear of driving him away. And she could feel the uncertainty that came in the darkest parts of the morning and ate into even the happiest moments, uncertainty about which was worse, the weeks of loneliness or the terror of doing that one unknowable thing once he finally came home that would make him leave again.

  Beneath all the careful tidiness, the attention to detail, the wondering and hoping and working, lurked the need to keep busy enough never to think of the question of whether this was really what love was.

  Only with Lawrence had she allowed herself to ask that question. He had shown her that being in love could be so much more, could be liberating and exciting and exalting, not terrifying and exhausting. But unless there was some other explanation, some other way to comprehend what was so clear in front of her eyes, she now saw that she had learned it at the expense of another woman.

  She could not face it. Tuesday’s eyes searched frantically for Jack. “I think it is time for us to go, love. I am sure Lady Pickering is—”

  “Jaaaaack!” squealed a little boy who had just toddled around the corner. Jack scooped him up and swung him around, then planted him next to Maria.

  She looked at the child with such an expression of mingled love and pride that there could be no question he was hers. He had inherited his mother’s dark hair, but his eyes were a brilliant, piercing blue.

  “He is beautiful,” Tuesday said, and it was the truth. “What is his name?”

  Maria smiled. “Lawrence. Just like his father.”

  Tuesday closed her eyes for a moment. This was so much worse than anything she had ever imagined. She was filled with rage, and at the same time with an overwhelming desire to deny it all. It wasn’t true, it could not be true. There was a mistake, some enormous, breathtaking mistake. Lawrence would explain it all to her, he would make her understand. It would all be fine.

  But another voice, a quieter and more reasonable voice, told her not to kid herself. What explanation could there be? Better to accept it and move on. Get Jack out of Doom Manor. Find a house, somewhere, anywhere. Never see Lawrence Pickering again. Never …

  No. She had to find Lawrence.

  She opened her eyes as Maria was tousling her son’s hair—Lawrence Pickering’s son’s hair—and asking him, “Do you think Jack and his sister Tuesday would like some cake?”

  Jack and the little boy let out twin yelps of joy, but Tuesday squelched them.

  She tried to smile as she said, “That is very kind but I am afraid Jack and I need to be going,” but she could hear the tremor in her voice.

  “Jack is hungry,” Jack complained.

  “I’m sorry love. We’ll find some cake somewhere else. There is something important I need to do right away.”

  Jack did not conceal his disappointment, but he went along with her. They said their good-byes and set out from the house. As they trudged slowly
down the path back to Doom Manor, he asked, “What do Jack and Tuesday need to do?”

  Tuesday tried to sound cheerful as she explained, “Jack needs to collect up all his things. That way he can come home with me.”

  “But Jack lives at Doom Manor.”

  “Yes, he did, but now he is going to have a new home.”

  “In London?”

  “No,” Tuesday answered, and suddenly she was having trouble breathing. “I don’t know where. Somewhere good.”

  Jack stopped walking and stood in the middle of the path. “But Jack likes it at Doom Manor. Jack has a lot of friends. Jack does not want to leave.” Over Jack’s shoulder Tuesday could still see the little cottage.

  “I know, love, and I am very sorry but you can’t stay here anymore.”

  Jack reached out to touch her face. “Why is Tuesday crying?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She slapped at the tears, and then grasped his hand with her good arm and pulled him on.

  “Jack can’t leave without saying good-bye to his friend Lawrence,” Jack pointed out.

  A voice from the side of the path asked, “Good-bye? Where’s Jack going?”

  Tuesday looked up and saw Lawrence there. There. He had been smiling but the smile died when he saw the expression on her face. “Tuesday, what is wrong?” he asked. Her only reply was to back away from him. Frowning, he asked, “What are you two doing here?”

  She took a deep breath. “Learning your secret.”

  He looked confused for a moment, then nodded slowly and said, “Maria and Lawrence. You’ve seen Maria and Lawrence.”

  No! she wanted to scream. You were not supposed to know about them. It was supposed to be a mistake! Tuesday had to press her knees together to keep from shuddering. “Yes. We just came from their house. Your house.” When he didn’t correct her, didn’t protest, didn’t say anything, she went on, “Damn you, Lawrence, why didn’t you tell me about them?”

  “I was going to.”